I keep going to work. I laugh at myself for being there. If people knew that I knew that I’m going to die at the end of the month I’m sure they’d tell me to take time off or just quit.
But I don’t.
For one thing, if I suddenly quit my job everyone would ask me why, which is a question that I can’t answer in a way anyone would believe.
Also, honestly, work fills my days. It’s not that I am in a hurry to die. I desperately want to live longer if I could, but this is my reality. If I don’t go to work I have too much time to think about the fact that I have less than a month to live. At work I sometimes completely forget about my situation for an hour or two.
That never happens at home.
I know I’m supposed to be out doing all the fun and amazing things I haven’t done yet and will never have another chance to do. People with terminal diagnoses are always jumping out of airplanes and traveling the world to make sure they get the most out of their remaining days.
I just can’t get excited about that.
Whenever I think of doing something exciting it reminds me of the fact that I don’t have much time left to do that amazing thing or anything else. The idea of marking items off a bucket list feels like watching a countdown to my death. It’s depressing.
Instead I’ve been trying to keep my life as normal as I can. Maybe that’s a form of denial, but it’s all I can do to stay sane.
What happens next? Read the next part of the story here.
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